


In All the Land

by Chash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 21:23:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5759365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Queen Clarke Griffin got to set her own terms for how to win her hand. Bellamy Blake is the first to fulfill them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In All the Land

**Author's Note:**

> I am either not at all in the mood to write porn or really in the mood to write porn, basically.

If Clarke had her choice of it, her parents wouldn't have died when she was nineteen. Of course they wouldn't have. But there are a scant few advantages to it, and one of them is that she's the queen and unmarried, and, because of a few loopholes Wells managed to find, in charge of setting her own terms for what suitors must do to marry her, instead of having her parents or the council do it. 

It's quite a scandal.

Not that she publicizes her terms. She tells the suitors as they arrive, enjoys the way their eyes widen and their jaws drop. The first few are so horrified they leave on the spot, and then word starts to spread, the legend of how to earn Queen Clarke Griffin's hand taking on a life of its own.

It's a good system Clarke's come up with, if she does say so herself. As the rumor spreads, she starts to draw in more interesting people. Anyone who thinks her terms are absurd doesn't even bother trying, so she finds herself with a far better group of suitors than she would have had if anyone else set the terms for her marriage.

And she's had some excellent nights. Not all of them, of course, but it's been overall very enjoyable.

Tonight's looking to be good too. At least her suitor is very, very handsome. She has high hopes for him.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she says. "My name is Clarke."

"You're the Queen," he says, sounding amused. "Everyone knows your name."

"And you did come to marry me. I just wanted to make sure you were in the right place."

He ducks his head. "I figured it was worth a try. Although I'm not sure the terms I heard for winning your hand were accurate."

She can't help a smirk. "What did you hear?"

"Anyone who could make you come more times in an hour than you can make yourself come," he says. He doesn't color; if anything, he looks amused. "But the prince I heard it from was very drunk. And fairly stupid."

"Which one was that?" Clarke asks, curious.

"I don't know if I should be telling you which princes I disrespect, your majesty."

"Please, feel free. I haven't respected any of the ones who have tried for me."

"Prince Finn. He came into my sister's tavern after he failed to win you and claimed your terms were impossible. I don't think he realized women experienced sexual climax, honestly."

"He did not, no," she says. "I had to demonstrate once he'd spent himself." She cocks her head. "So, your sister owns a tavern. What do you do? What's your name?"

"Bellamy Blake," he says. His bow is not proper, but it's a decent effort. "I'm a tailor, your majesty."

"A tailor."

"I heard no restrictions placed on who could try for your hand."

"No, there weren't any. If you'd like to try, you're welcome." She smirks. "The terms you heard were correct. If you can bring me to orgasm more times in an hour than I can do myself, I'll happily marry you."

"How many is that?" he asks. It's a good start. Plenty of people don't even ask.

"Five."

"And I'm just supposed to believe you?"

Clarke frowns. "Excuse me?"

"No offense, but I think I should have some proof that you're capable of doing what you claim. Maybe five was just a particularly good hour. If you can get yourself off five times in an hour, I want to see it."

He's not the first one to not believe her, but it's a different kind of disbelief than usual. The usual disbelief is that she can achieve five at all. And no one's ever asked to _watch_. Clarke can feel herself flushing, thinking of his dark eyes on her as she brings herself to climax, him watching her touch herself.

"Do you?"

His smirk tells her he's knows exactly why she's blushing. "I really do."

"That seems fair," she says, keeping her voice even. "You're welcome to dine with me tonight, and I'll bring you to my bedchambers after. You'll have to spend another night in the palace. It wouldn't be fair to make you go after I've worn myself out."

"Oh no, two nights in the palace," he teases. "What a horrible punishment."

She snorts. "Go let the steward change you into something more respectable. He'll have conniptions if he doesn't."

"Understood, your majesty."

"Clarke is fine."

His smile is less sharp this time. "Clarke," he agrees. "See you soon."

*

Dinner goes well. Bellamy is intelligent and well-read; his mother was a seamstress, which is how he learned the trade, and while he didn't know his own father, his sister's father was an innkeeper, and he traded tailoring and odd jobs for lessons with the scholars who stayed in the inn. He's twenty-five, five years older than she is, and hails from Arcadia's neighboring country, Mechania. He's sharp and funny and doesn't think too highly of the nobility, but has heard mostly good things about her.

"Mostly?" she asks.

"Well, that prince did think you were insane," he says. "But I think that was more of his issue."

"Possibly." She takes a deliberate sip of wine. "And to what do you owe your sexual prowess?"

He snorts. "Who says I've got any?" he asks, with a twinkle in his eye. Clarke laughs too, and he grins. "I've tumbled a few girls. I used to be pretty bad at it, honestly, but the nice thing about being a tailor with no prospects is that if you don't please someone in bed, they aren't shy about telling you. No one's going to tell a prince he didn't bring them satisfaction, except another royal. And by the time princes are bedding princesses or queens, I assume the damage is done. I decided I wanted to court one of my stepfather's barmaids. She was three years older than I was and I made a mess of it. She wouldn't marry me, but she did at least tell me how to please her." He shrugs, offers her another smile. "If nothing else, I can say I've fucked a queen, right?"

"That's true," she says, laughing. "Feel free to spread that around as much as you like."

"So, you've been doing this for--a year, right?" She nods, and he considers. "Anyone ever come close to succeeding?"

"Once or twice. A few women have tried, they tend to do better. One got up to four." She grins. "One had a very remarkable machine she was trying to use, which unfortunately broke down, or I think she would have made it. I told her to come back if she ever fixed it."

He laughs. "So, there's a lot of competition."

"Plenty of nobles are scandalized, as obviously I'm not _pure_. And I get more than my fair share of overblown egos, men who are convinced they've got more skill than they do, but it's been interesting, at least."

"I can imagine."

Anticipation rises in Clarke as the meal goes on, a squirming awareness that he's going to follow her to her rooms, that he's going to _watch her_. She's already slick between her legs, and she wonders if she'll be able to break her own record. She's not sure if she wants to or not; the more she gets herself off, the harder it will be for him to win her hand.

The thought is enough to at least partially bring her back to herself. She's never wanted any of her suitors to succeed before. There have certainly been ones she wouldn't mind, but she's never been _hoping_ for it.

It's almost nice, wanting that.

"I'll show you to the royal chambers," she tells him, and he follows behind her just close enough that she can feel the heat from his chest against her back. He's only a few inches taller than she is, but firmly built, muscular, and decently broad. 

She really wants him to live up to her expectations.

"So, when does the hour start?" he asks, once she's taken him into her bedroom. "Do you start with or without your clothes?"

Clarke can't help a laugh. "I tend to let the suitors decide that. It's a matter of whether or not they consider undressing to be part of their seduction technique."

"This is your clock," he points out. "You make the rules."

"I don't get started until I'm naked," she says. "Once I'm touching myself with purpose."

His dark eyes go impossibly darker. "And how do you want me?"

"On the bed is fine." Through some miracle, her voice says even. "Boots off, everything else on, please."

"Sure." He toes off his boots and stretches out on one side of her bed, settling in with a groan that makes her shiver. "I'd heard queens slept better than peasants, but I had no idea how much better." He rolls onto his side to watch her. "Your turn."

It's different, undressing with him watching, knowing he's not doing anything _but_ watching. All his focus is on her, and she can see the way his eyes rove over her shoulders as she bares them, take in the curves of her breasts over her corset.

"I think you should start the hour," he says, voice rough. "You're enjoying this."

"You're probably right," she agrees, and tips the glass over.

She doesn't watch him as she undoes the ties on her corset, but she hears a sharp intake of breath when her top is bare, and once she's completely naked, he says, "It's unfair, really. You're already royalty, you don't need to be beautiful on top of that."

Clarke laughs, finding her materials in her drawer and settling on the bed herself. It's large enough she's not touching him, not even close, but it doesn't really matter. He's still unavoidably present. "All princesses are golden-haired and beautiful, haven't you heard?" she teases.

"Not all of them have--what is this?" he asks, reaching over to pluck up her blown glass dildo. 

"I fuck myself with it," she says, easy, and his eyes snap up to her. She grins. "What? My fingers are nice too, but I like some variety."

His tongue darts out to wet his lips. "You'd better show me, then. You're running out of time."

She takes the dildo from him, fingers brushing his, and settles onto her back. "I tend to start slowly," she says. "Not that I'd need to tonight. I've been wet since you said you wanted to watch me."

"Yeah?"

"You're the first to ever ask."

"No wonder no one's married you yet."

Clarke cups her breast in her hand, flicking her thumb over her nipple, getting it hard, making herself squirm. Her other hand still has the dildo, and she rubs it over her clit, making herself moan.

"What do you usually think about?" he asks. Her eyes are closed so she can't see his expression, but just the sound of his voice is enough to make him shiver.

"It depends. I've had some--mmm--good sex over the years. I'll think about that. Or just--hands and mouths. I don't need specifics, honestly."

"What are you thinking about now?" She can feel him shifting a little closer, and she opens her eyes to give him a roll of her eyes. He grins back.

"You know what I'm thinking about."

"Not in as much detail as I'd like."

"I'm thinking your hands are bigger than mine," she says, and puts the dildo down so she can work her clit with her fingers, bringing herself to her first orgasm as he watches, not breaking their eye contact.

"They are. That's one."

"I like one before I really get going, just to take the edge off," she says. "And then I--" She teases her entrance with the dildo, sliding the tip in just enough to make her hips jerk. "And then I'll--"

"Fuck," says Bellamy, on a breath, and Clarke grins at him.

"You can touch yourself too if you want. I won't mind."

"I think I'm skewing your results," he teases, but his fingers are already fumbling with the fastenings on his trousers, shoving the fabric out of the way so he can wrap his fingers around himself. He's large and already hard, and Clarke's mouth waters a little at the sight of him.

"You might be right," she admits. "But you'll be here tomorrow too."

"I will," he agrees. "Come on, Clarke. I want to see you fuck yourself."

She moans, slides it in fast and finds the angle, the one that makes her whole body tremble. She can hear Bellamy making soft noises of his own, and she lets herself think about it, about this being him inside of her, him driving into her over and over, his mouth on her neck, his hands on her clit. 

"Keep talking," he says, strained. "You've only come once, I'm not that impressed."

She laughs. "Once with just the dildo, just--fuck, right here, it's so fucking perfect. It takes a little longer, but it's--" She loses the ability to form words as her hips work.

"Fuck," he says, on a laugh. "You are really not what I was expecting."

She manages to look at him again after her second orgasm, as she's coming down. He's working his dick with slow, even strokes, not looking away from her _face_ , ridiculously. 

"What were you expecting?"

"I thought Prince Finn was full of shit."

Clarke laughs. "He was. But for different reasons."

"Two. What next?"

She starts fucking herself again, slow, building it up. "I keep going. That's where most guys fall apart; they've already gotten off and don't know how to keep going after that."

"Mmm," he agrees. "But you do."

"Not every night," she says. "But yeah, sometimes I'll just keep going until my clit's too sore to keep going."

Bellamy comes somewhere after her third orgasm, swiping his thumb over the tip of his dick, watching her play with her breasts, and that's enough to drive her over the edge too, just the sounds he makes and the way he chokes her name out. She wants to hear that more often. She loves the way he says her name.

She gets to five, but just barely, and she's so exhausted by the end she barely even manages to make sure she's within the hour.

"See?" she asks, voice a little muzzy. "Five."

"That's a lot to live up to," he says. 

"Mmm."

He laughs. "You haven't even gotten the dildo out, don't fall asleep yet."

"You wore me out."

"You did most of the work." There's a pause, and she's nearly asleep when she feels him shift closer. "Don't freeze to death," he murmurs, and she feels his hand reach between her legs, slide the dildo out of her, slow and careful, _gentle_ , before he lifts her enough to get her under the covers.

"Long day," she says, and then, impulsively, "You don't have to leave."

She can feel him stiffen, and then the sheets pull back, and he slides in next to her.

"Does everyone stay the night after?"

"No," she admits, and curls into him. "No one ever has."

She's asleep in seconds.

*

When she wakes up the next morning, Bellamy is wrapped around her, and she feels warm and safe and content, happy in an uncomplicated way. _Loved_ , absurdly.

She's probably the least appropriate queen of all time, but no one seems to mind. She's a good queen, and as far as she's concerned, the less her citizens worry about chastity, the better. 

"Can I try now?" Bellamy asks, brushing his lips against her temple. "Or am I required to wait for tonight?"

She slides her hand up his side. "I'm still a little sore."

"I bet you're still a little wet," he says, shifting his hips so she can feel the length of him against her thigh. "It was bad enough keeping my hands off you last night, I'm not going to make it through another day. Fuck, you're gorgeous, you know that?"

Clarke fumbles one arm out of bed, finds the hourglass and flips it over. "This is a practice run," she says. "You still have tonight, if this doesn't--" He pushes her onto her back and slides on top of her, kissing her throat, making her squirm. "I don't want you at a disadvantage," she manages, and he laughs.

"I'll do this tonight too," he says, and catches her mouth with his this time, kissing her long and deep. His mouth tastes a little stale, but Clarke can't bring herself to care at all, not when he licks the taste away himself, presses her into her mattress. "I'll do this as often as you'll let me."

His hand is rough on her breast, making her shiver and then gasp when he squeezes gently. "I really, really want you to do this," she says. 

"Six, right?" he asks.

"Six."

He pecks her mouth and then slides down, dropping wet kisses against her neck, her chest, her breasts. "Wish me luck."

He swirls his tongue around her nipple, moving his hand to between her legs, working her clit with purpose. She's still tender from last night, but on edge too, because this was what she _really_ wanted. Him.

"I can't believe I'm the first person who thought of this," he murmurs, turning his attention to her other breast. "I got to see what you like."

"Did it help?"

"You can tell me later." 

His teeth rasp against her nipple, just barely, and she groans and comes. "One," she says, laughing.

"That was a gimme," he says. "I thought it would take longer."

Two and three come with his mouth between her legs, his tongue relentless on her clit as he fucks her with his fingers. The fourth time, he gets his tongue in her and makes her _scream_ with it, which is a first. He pulls back, mouth slick, and Clarke thinks that's nearly enough to make her come again on the spot, the sight of his grin and his face a mess with _her_.

"How much longer?"

She catches her breath enough to look at the hourglass. "Twenty minutes. Probably a little longer."

"Good," he says, and nuzzles her neck, kisses her long and slow. He tastes like her now, and the thought sends thrills all through her body.

"Taking a break?" she asks, tangling her hand in his messy curls.

"I've got time." He pulls back enough to find her dildo again, smirks at her. "Does this count as cheating?"

"No, but--"

He slides it against her, teasing her the same way she teases herself. "But what?"

"I want _you_ in me," she says, spreading her legs.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"Fuck, Bellamy, _please_ \--"

"That's the last one," he says. "Number six, you're going to come on my dick." He pushes the dildo into her, fast and hard, making her gasp, and the pace he sets with it as just as relentless. She angles her hips until he's hitting her favorite spot every time, and his mouth doesn't stop moving, placing wet kisses against her neck, her jaw, her lips. Her whole body is shaking when she comes, and she's still riding out the aftershocks when he pulls the dildo out and slides in himself. He's thicker and longer, and the sound he makes as he sinks into her is almost as good as the feeling of having him inside her. "Fuck," he groans. "Fuck, Clarke."

"Just one more," she says. "Come on."

He laughs. "You're fucking pushy, it's great." 

He goes slower this time, but he has the angle right from the beginning; Clarke wraps her legs around him and pulls him in for another kiss, sloppy and wet, as he fumbles for her clit again.

The last orgasm builds slowly, from her core, and when it comes, it's like a dam bursting, almost too painful to be good, but not quite. She might come again when he does too, it's hard to really separate them out. It doesn't really matter; six or seven is an unimportant distinction. Anything more than five is enough.

He flops on the bed next to her, sweaty and exhausted, _grinning_. "Seven, right?"

"Six and a half."

"How long do I have left? I could get to seven."

Clarke curls around him and closes her eyes, feeling content and boneless. "Only five minutes. You can try again later."

He kisses her hair. "I can, huh?"

"That's how it works. I come six times, you marry me, become my prince consort, and I hold you to this standard for the rest of our lives."

"Fuck," he says, laughing softly. "I forgot if I did it I had to marry you."

She freezes. "You don't _have_ to," she snaps, trying to pull away.

His arm tightens around her. "No, shit. That's not what I meant. I'm just--I wanted to see if it was true, and then I wanted--" He nuzzles her hair. "I forgot you're a queen. You weren't anything like I expected a queen to be. Honestly, I have no idea what I'm doing, but trust me, I really want to marry you. I've just never been a prince consort before."

"You're a fast learner, you'll be fine," she says. "It's not hard."

"Ruling a country _isn't hard_ ," he teases. "Of course not. Anyone can do it."

"Not _anyone_. But I think you can, yes." She presses her lips to his collarbone. "You'd better marry me. Everyone else is going to be a disappointment after you."

He runs his hand up her back, tugs her closer. "That's what I was going for, yeah." There's a pause, and then he says, "Prince consort?"

"You aren't royal in your own right, so yes, prince consort."

"At least that's less intimidating than being king," he says, yawning. "I'll take it. Just let me sleep for another hour and I'll be set."

Clarke closes her eyes and curls back into him. "Another hour," she agrees. "But you have to marry me after that."

"Forced into marrying a queen for my sexual prowess, what a terrible burden." She pokes his side, and he laughs. "I'll bear it somehow. I assume there are some perks."

Clarke considers for a minute and then finds herself grinning. "Here's one: everyone's going to know exactly what you had to do to win my hand in marriage, and that dozens of princes _couldn't_ do it."

He laughs. "Well, when you put it like that," he teases. "That is quite the perk."

**Author's Note:**

> Bellamy POV [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5691655/chapters/14455015)!


End file.
